


The Little Soldiers Come Marching Home

by morifiinwe



Series: All The Love We Ever Gave [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, But they’re a mess, Family Angst, Family Reunions, Fëanor is a proud dad, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Tap Code, but it is there, the romance is minor, they’re trying, this family is a mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2019-10-18 10:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17578871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morifiinwe/pseuds/morifiinwe
Summary: They came back afraid and in pain. They came back guilt wracked and angry. If they had certainty in anything, it was that things had gone wrong along the way. Things should have been done differently.Sons will love their fathers deep down in their hearts, but after all is said and all wrong done, will fathers still love their sons?





	1. Try and Learn and Try Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a part of Fëanor that has always longed for his father and his father’s approval and his father’s advice. It is never stronger than when he is afraid.

Fëanor would not say he was afraid. Not of the door, not of what may lie behind it. He would not be intimidated by Mandos’s words and he would not be intimitated by a closed door. He raised his hands to push it open, certain that he was prepared. Then he planted his forehead between them, not pushing, before turning away. No, he was not afraid.

There was a tapestry on the wall displaying Alqualondë. Fëanor supposed that it was to make him feel remorse, but he never look at himself or the destruction in the path he had made. Instead he touched each of his sons’ faces in turn. When he had first arrived in the halls he had called them all his enemies. He swore to Mandos that it was necessary, it was completely necessary. But time had worn away his resolve to hate the Teleri and the tapestry did little to hurt or help him. It was simply there, as was he.

The room was quiet for a long time.

Fëanor sat on the floor across the room and watched the tapestry’s stillness. It was strange, but he could hardly stop looking at it. There was something so inherently off about it, but Fëanor could not place it, though he wanted to take it all apart and fix the wrong. He also wanted to shake it. It or himself. Even the air didn’t move in the little square room. Everything was still.

Far too still in fact. Far too still for Fëanor who had rarely stopped moving in life. Far too still for Alqualondë which was all movement and panic and fear. If it had been still, things would not have gone as they had. And at that thought, Fëanor did move, up and across the room, seizing the tapestry and pulling. As it came clattering down on to the floor, the door swung open. Not the one that Fëanor would not say he feared, but the one by which he had entered, and by which the Maiar of Mandos entered. He turned his head slowly to see his new visitor, a defiant smile on his face.

It was not one of the Maiar.

Mandos loomed disapprovingly in the doorway. Fëanor tipped up his chin and met his gaze.

“The tapestry was wrong.”

“Was it now?” Mandos looked at him with a mix of confusion, irritation, and checked amusement. “I was assured that it was accurate.”

“It was too still.”

“Such is the nature of tapestries.”

“It was dark and confused and by no means still. The tapestry is wrong and I will not have it.”

“I will not deny that you were not still, but what of those you cut down? What of your enemies?”

Fëanor turned away at that, staring down at the floor where the tapestry lay crumpled. By this reckoning, the Teleri certainly seemed still and innocent. Memory told otherwise though. At the time, he had not been entirely sure what had made him draw his sword, but he was fairly sure it was as much on them as it was on him.

“They were not still either. Nor where they truly my enemies. I see that much now.”

“That is good.”

“Don’t talk like you know what’s going on in my head. I can assure you that it’s vastly different from what you want or expect,” Fëanor had turned to face Mandos again, speaking quietly, and almost buzzing with suppressed rage. “You want me to confess to a crime? Very well, I confess. I confess to the crime of fear. I confess to anger and confusion and defending myself in the dark. I confess to kinslaying, yes, and I confess to defending my sons.”

Mandos stood silent. Fëanor could not read his expression.

“I will not stand here and act like the only guilty party. None of us knew what we were doing. None of us knew a battle until we were in the middle of one. We were afraid in the dark. We were supposed to be safe here. We were supposed to be safe!”

The silence stretched on for a brief infinity as the weight of his words sunk in. Fëanor stood almost still, watching Mandos watch him. His anger would not leave him. It had seeped into his fëa when that simple truth had burst out. They were supposed to be safe. Wasn’t that why his father had come here?

A sudden desire to see his father again washed over him.

“However potent your words can be, I care far less about them than your actions,” Mandos said in the same calm, even tone. Fëanor had the brief urge to hit him. “You may have noticed that you cannot speak words of such power here.”

Childishly, Fëanor kicked the crumbled tapestry on the floor. Mandos looked at him quizzically.

“I want to see my father.”

“It is not up to me whether you see him or not.”

“How is it not up to you? Isn’t everything in this damn place up to you?”

“I have given you the option to see him. It is not up to me whether you take it or not.”

“What option?”

Mandos inclined his head towards the other door. Fëanor shivered involuntarily, though he would still not admit that he feared it.

“If you fear it —“

“I’m not afraid of a door.”

“If you fear it,” Mandos repeated, “it is because you know what is behind it. You fear a judgement.”

Then he left.

Fëanor watched him disappear from the doorway. He did not move to follow, knowing from experience that he couldn’t move that door. Going back was not an option anymore, but he didn’t know if he wanted to go forwards. Kneeling down, he felt the tapestry between his fingers. Once again, he touched each of his sons’ faces in turn, but then he actually looked at the tapestry. At the dead around them. Those that had died at Alqualondë had been the first dead bodies that many of the survivors had ever seen. Not so for Fëanor. He remembered his father in Formenos.

He rose slowly from the floor. Fear and judgement be damned. He was going to see his father.

* * * * *

The door by which he had entered took an awful lot of effort to get absolutely nowhere. The door by which he was leaving was far easier than that. Fëanor swallowed his worries, pushed hard, and it simply swung open.

There wasn’t a room behind it, only a corridor, at the other end of which was another door, this one propped open invitingly. Fëanor spared one last look at the tapestry on the floor, then let the door shut behind him. Looking back was not going forwards, and go forwards he must. The corridor was warmer and brighter, somehow, than the small square room that he had been inhabiting. There was a different feeling to this whole place. The grey dreariness of the Halls was still there, but it was covered over by the warm familiarity of something that felt rather like home. It reminded him of the forges, or Nerdanel’s workshop, or hearing music drift in an open window on a lazy afternoon.

Fëanor hesitated at the open door. The same tendrils of fear crept up his legs, but he shook them away. He could tell his father was in the room and his fëa was almost calling out to him. It hurt to be without him. Following this desperate desire lead him straight into the room.

Finwë was waiting for him in the centre of the room. His foreign, familiar face shocked the words from Fëanor, who could only stand, shaking, in the doorway.

“Fëanáro,” his father said quietly.

“Atar,” it came out as quiet as a breath.

Finwë moved towards him, slowly and tentatively, reaching his hand out to his son, guiding him into the room.

“Fëanáro. It is alright. I am here. It is alright now.”

Fëanor pressed his face to his father’s shoulder, clinging on to him. Finwë held him close, wanting to never let him go again.

“No it’s not. It can’t be. I’ve done so much. Too much. Atar I was so afraid,” his voice was muffled, but distinct.

Finwë found that there was nothing he could say. He simply stood there, holding his son close to his chest as though he were a child again. He wished it were so. A child’s problems were not this large and crushing.

“And my sons. Oh my sons. Atar, what have I done? I’ve doomed them all, haven’t I?” Fëanor pulled away to look at his father. “And when they come here, what do I do then?”

“You do better. I know that you can. You were trying your best in circumstances that were the furthest from ideal, and I know that you could do better in a better situation. If your sons come here, or if you go out to meet them, do better. Learn from this. Go slower at times. Trust your brothers more.”

“I will try, if I can.”

“All we can do is try, yonya. Try and learn and try again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Atar - Quenya word meaning Father  
> *Yonya - Quenya word meaning My Son


	2. Half of a Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silence is a strange and uncomfortable thing for someone with so many brothers.  
> —  
> Or, the Maiar of Mandos still don’t understand.

It had been a long time since Fëanor had first arrived in the Halls. A long time to consider his mistakes, to argue and make peace with his brother, to listen to his father and his father’s advice. A long enough time to begin to hope that his sons would never have to come here. There was news of death and injury, of torment and troubles, but his sons had survived it all. He had to believe there was still hope.

Death chimed like a bell through the Halls of Mandos, sounding to of all the kin of those that had died. It had shaken Fëanor the first time he had heard it, when Aegnor and Angrod fell to the flames. Worse though, was when Fingolfin died in his great fight against Morgoth. Finwë had taken it harder than him. It was hard to hear of nephews, harder still to hear of brothers, but the worst was the chiming for your own children. Fëanor clung tighter to his belief every time the bell rang, and hoped he would never know his father’s pain.

In the end, it could not be prevented.

The death bell tolled through Fëanor’s whole being, promising that parts of his fëa that had dwelled in another hröa would shortly be gathered up and deposited at his feet in the approximate shape of one of his sons.

He could not be sure which one, but he could not do anything. Though no one had said it in as many words, it was clear to Fëanor that he was not allowed to roam freely. When his son needed him the most, he was forced to be still, to be patient. It was insufferable.

He propped open the door through which his son would come and began to pace.

* * * * *

Caranthir was completely alone.

He could not remember the last time he was completely alone. He had not even arrived to the Halls alone. Celegorm and Curufin had been with him, half dragging him behind them because the sight of his own dead body had rendered him next to useless. He did not know where they had been taken to.

The little room he had been left in was empty except for him and two tapestries, one of Alqualondë, the other of Doriath. Caranthir wavered between avoiding looking at them and staring at them intently like some kind of self-inflicted punishment. Perhaps that was the point of them.

Alqualondë had been a strange experience, for all of them. Caranthir had never quite worked out who began the fighting, only that he was in the thick of it before he really knew it. Doriath was different. Very, very different. By that point, he knew battles intimately, and every move was deliberate, and almost every enemy anticipated.

Right up until Dior cut him down in front of his brothers.

After that, Caranthir’s memory of events was fuzzy at best. He had been watching his own body with a mix of horror and morbid intrigue. All he knew for certain was that both Celegorm and Curufin were dead with him, and that Curufin’s guard dropped when he saw his brother die. Part of him reasoned he could hardly be blamed for such events, but the other part was more persuasive, and it screamed that all this was his fault.

When he wasn’t watching the tapestries, he was watching the door. The strangely foreboding door that no one had ever passed through. It repulsed him and drew him in in equal measure, inspired fear and familiarity with equal strength, and fascinated him more than he could say. The tapestries, he understood. The past was a naturally enchanting place. The door confused him, though. There was no reason for it to be quite so intriguing.

Occasionally, he was brought up out of his mind by the appearance of one of the Maiar that dwelled in the Halls. They were solemn and quiet and infuriating and they refused to let him see his brothers.

“In time,” they said, “when you are all ready.”

“When will we be ready?”

“You will know, when it comes.”

“How long will it take? And what do you even mean ready?”

“We cannot say. But you will know, when it comes.”

A conversation with them could last for hours, convering the same points over and over without getting anywhere. Caranthir found it felt rather like walking in a circle until you had to sit down because your head was spinning. He’d have tried it to better compare the experiences, only he didn’t exactly have a head anymore. That always disorientated him. That and the silence.

When the silent loneliness exhausted his patience, Caranthir decided to take a close look at the door. It was nothing he hadn’t done before. He’d memorised everything about it, even though there wasn’t much to it, in the hopes of divining its purpose. No one had told him why it was there, none of the Maiar even acknowledged it. Everything and nothing at all could lie behind it, and he wouldn’t have a clue. But as he leaned against it, hoping against hope to relieve the pains of homesickness, he was almost convinced he could hear singing.

There was nothing particularly special about it. Caranthir had heard better singers, Maglor chief amongst them. It wasn’t a technically impressive song, just the soothing amble of a lullaby. And yet Caranthir pressed himself close to the door just to hear it go on, humming a harmony that he somehow knew. Floating in the back of his mind was a half memory of Amrod and Amras liking a song just like this when they were very little.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to hear his father sing and his mother hum along. He wanted to see Maedhros smile at them, Maglor play along. He wanted Celegorm to be just reckless, Curufin only too smart. The twins to laugh and play like boys again. He wanted to make again, to sew and to weave. He wanted his own tapestries of his own designs, not the punishments that showed them all at their darkest and most desperate.

Slowly, quietly, Caranthir rose from the ground. There was no going back or going home. The Valar had made that quite clear. But they also seemed set on trapping him with his past, and never letting him go forwards. He approached the tapestry of Doriath, twisting his figure inside his fist. Did he deserve a new chance? Perhaps not, but he was going to have one anyway. If there was nothing behind the door, then so be it. He would find another way out. The familiar heat of anger filled him, finally breaking Caranthir out of the strange trance he’d been in since he’d died. He would not be trapped. Not by oaths or walls or Ainur. Not anymore.

The singing was louder in the corridor. Caranthir noticed this vaguely, because of course it was, that’s simple logic. His still simmering anger prevented him from interpreting the sound properly, as it shifted from an aimless tune to an actual song, with words and a discernible voice.

At the end of the corridor, there was another door. It was similar to the one he had just come through, both in design and that he had no idea what was on the other side. The last one wasn’t bad though, he reasoned, and if it meant getting out, he’d deal with what came.

Caranthir was not expecting what came.

Fëanor had turned as the door opened and the tune of the song had trailed off into silence. Caranthir let out a sound that was somewhere between a whimper and a cry. Without speaking, they moved to embrace each other, Caranthir pressing himself as close as he could. It wasn’t quite home, but by Eru, it was good enough.

“They had stupid tapestries and none of them would tell me anything important,” he muttered.

Fëanor smiled down at him, “It was much the same for me.”

“They’re idiots.”

“True.”

Caranthir felt his father move, and pulled away to see him studying Caranthir with an expression of almost sorrow on his face.

“You know that I love you, don’t you Moryo?”

The question confused him. Why would his father doubt this, of all things? It seemed obvious that his father would love him, but he knew in his heart that he couldn’t deny that he had doubted, at times. Not now though. Not now his father was looking at him like it both broke his heart, and filled him with joy to see him again.

“I know, atar.”

“I am sorry. I am so, so sorry for what happened, for what I lead you to do.”

This confused Caranthir even further. He had always thought of his father as certain and immovable. Such an apology felt out of place. Surely he should be apologising for failing in his task? He asked as much but Fëanor shook his head determinedly.

“No, you don’t need to apologise. Moryo, I’ve had a lot of time to think over what happened. I’ve spoken with my father, even with my brother. You did not fail me. I failed you, and I am so sorry for that.”

“It wasn’t all terrible, you know.”

Fëanor tilted his head sideways, a look of confusion passing over his face.

“I met many different people, who helped me and who I helped. Who I learned from. Let me tell you about the dwarves, atar. I think you would have liked them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m following the popular headcanon that Caranthir sews and weaves, because I really like it.  
> Sorry this took so long, I’m not particularly fast.


	3. Signals and Knocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curufin did not expect some of his creations to catch up with him, but things do have a nice way of working out, it seems.  
> -  
> Or, Caranthir teaches Fëanor something new

Maedhros has come up with the idea, but Curufin had worked out the methods. Two different codes, one for use with signals, one for use with knocks. It was slow and sometimes inconvenient, but knocks would be clearer down the corridor than words. Caranthir needed to contact his brother, needed to let him know what was behind the door. It would be easier for him that way. Caranthir wanted it to be easier for him.

*****

Curufin didn’t register the sound of insistent knocking when it started. He was caught up in pacing across the floor of his little cage-room. He wasn’t thinking of the tapping code. He didn’t think there would be sound from behind the door.

The knocking remained insistent.

Curufin didn’t appreciate the decorations. Despite asking many questions about the tapestries and the door, he was no closer to learning their purposes. Sometimes, he asked about his brothers. Often he asked about his father. He was always met with the same tight lipped response.

He felt like a wild thing, all penned up and alone. How would Celegorm live like this? Or had they given him more freedom? There were no answers. What would Caranthir think of the tapestries? Would he think he could do better, like they always, always used to? There were still no answers.

Curufin had always been the questioning sort, asking his father a thousand and one questions about everything Feanor knew. He had a thousand and one questions for his father now, the most important one of all swirling round his mind as though it were caught in a whirlpool.

What do you think of me, atar?

Usually when he was swallowed up by thoughts and questions he could not satisfy, he taught himself new things. There was precious little to learn in the Halls of Mandos, and since  _ How Long Can I Go Without Screaming? _ wasn’t exactly distracting, Curfin decided to learn the entire room he was in off by heart. He started on the tapestries but chose to put them off. Looking at them made him feel uncomfortable, which Curufin supposed was the point. The only other interesting things in the room were the two doors. They seemed identical, but only one was ever acknowledged or used. Curufin approached the other, because of course it was more interesting than a door he had seen in use.

That was when he heard it, pressed close to the door, examining its hinges. An insistent, repetitive rhythm that sounded like it came from the other end of a corridor. It confused him at first, as he reached back in his memory for the code. Where were the longer dashes? You can’t do those when knocking. And what a strange string of letters for a signal like this.

“Signal,” he murmured, “but it’s not a signal is it? It’s knocks. Signals and knocks, knocks and signals. Oh, how did that one go?”

Then he stopped and listened. He’d invented this. He’d shared it with his brothers. Just his brothers, though, and not his father. It couldn’t be him then trying to reach out. Curufin found he didn’t really care who was on the other side of the door. Another face would be enough.

One knock, then three. Four, then five knocks, followed by four then two. Five then one, and finally three then four. The pattern began again.

C -- U -- R -- V -- O

His name. They were tapping out his name. The relief of familiarity could have made him cry. Curufin tapped out his response on the floor first to make sure it was correct. Five, four, one, five, four, three. He stood, and knocked firmly on the door.

Y -- E -- S

Curufin leant his head against the door to better hear the response. He didn’t expect to hear, instead, the excited rise of voices from down the corridor, muffled enough to be unidentifiable, but loud enough to be heard. The sound seemed more enchanting than anything he’d heard before. Curufin wasn’t quite sure why, but he suspected that it was part of the effects of prolonged silence.

The new message came in parts. He deciphered the first quickly; he’d almost expected it.

M -- O -- R -- Y -- O

Curufin was about to respond, when he received the second part.

A -- T -- A -- R

He was utterly still, waiting with his heart in his mouth.

W -- I -- T -- H -- M -- E

Curufin smiled, letting out a breathless laugh. His father,  _ his father _ , was on the other side of the door. And Caranthir was with him. He laughed again, and, without a backwards glance, threw open the door.

The corridor was dimly lit and rather plain, but Curufin paid it no mind. His focus was on the door at the end, almost identical to the one he had just gone through. It was shut, presumably to make the knocking easier, but there was a sliver of warm light from under the door, a sharp contrast to the grey-silver he was so used to.

He put his hands on the door and went to push it open, but hesitated. He’d had an idea, one that made him grin like a small child. Curufin raised his hand again, and knocked out a pattern that Moryo had already made.

One, one, four, four, one, one, four, two.

A -- T -- A -- R

The door was flung open, and his father pulled him into the warmth.

After a moment, someone shut the door, and Curufin felt another pair of arms wind round him, and then a third. Caranthir, he guessed, and likely also Finwë. No one said a word, but it was the kind of silence that Curufin didn’t mind. Companionable, comfortable, warm. Above all else, it was safe. Curufin couldn’t remember the last time he’d properly felt safe. He’d missed it, but at some point he’d learned to live without it.

When they pulled apart, Curufin looked to his brother first. He and Caranthir had never been particularly close, but he hadn’t been able to shake the way he’d looked when he’d died.

“Are you alright? You didn’t look good, afterwards. Even when we reached here.”

“I’m fine Curvo. How are you? Did your little grey box have the same stupid tapestries as ours?”

Curufin hummed in assent, and let his gaze wander around the room.

“The ones here are much nicer.”

The tapestries Curufin had been pointedly ignoring were not present here. Instead there were many brighter, more beautiful works. Tirion upon Túna, lit by the trees. Mereth Aderthad, the Feast of Reuniting. Mount Rerir and Lake Helevorn, Caranthir’s home.

“A gift from my mother.”

It was the first time Curufin had heard his father speak in a very long time, and it almost took him by surprise.

“She makes many tapestries of the events in Beleriand. When she heard about me taking mine down, she sent me some better ones,” Fëanor elaborated.

Curufin had been about to compare them to Caranthir’s own works, but the mention of their grandmother made sense. Míriel Þerindë was the one of the greatest weavers and seamstresses of the Noldor.

Curufin looked at Fëanor, who smiled, and extended a hand out to him. He took it, and his father pulled into another brief hug, before pulling away. He took Curufin’s face in his hands and looked him over, suddenly solemn.

“I am so very sorry for what I drove you to do Curvo. But I am also, very, very proud of you. Your tapping code? Ingenious.”

“Why couldn’t you just come down the corridor yourself?”

This time it was Finwë that spoke, and Fëanor looked over at him, a look of amusement passing over his face. This was a conversation they’d had before, then.

“Apparently, the fëa heals best in solitude. Ordinarily, I would defer to the judgement of the Valar, but they have no idea what they’re doing with this. We are not permitted to go to the newly dead, only greet them when they join us."

“No, you are not permitted to do more than that.”

They all turned to see Mandos standing imposingly in one of the doorways. Fëanor slowly moved forward, putting Caranthir and Curufin behind him. For such a quiet place, hostility still seemed alive in the air.

“The newly dead are not to be spoken to, not by any means. Even knocking on doors.”

“You do not seem to keep such strict rules over the others here. And how are they supposed to know what to do. You and your Maiar never explain anything,” Fëanor looked as though he was trying very hard not to shout.

“The Maiar know what is needed. What is needed is for you to be patient, and to wait. One of your sons has already come without you choosing to contact him,” Mandos gestured at Caranthir, who raised an eyebrow.

“I came through because I heard singing, and knew there was something else to go to. And it was my idea to use the tapping code anyway. Atar didn’t even know it.”

“Very well. It should not have been done, and it shall not be repeated. Am I understood?"

Each of them nodded begrudgingly in turn, until they got to Fëanor, who looked pensive for a moment.

“I will not leave any of my sons to such a place as that,” he said slowly.

“You are not permitted --”

“Do you really think I care about what you permit?” Fëanor cut him off, before turning and leaving the room by another door, identical to Curufin’s.

Curufin guessed he was going to Celegorm, and judging by the look Mandos gave to his retreating form, he was right. A stunned silence held for a moment, before Mandos left the room by the door he had entered. Finwë let out an exasperated sigh.

“Now that’s more like it,” Curufin remarked to his brother, smiling once again.

Caranthir laughed at that. Curufin laughed too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- In an unexpected burst of productivity, I release a new chapter  
> \- Curufin's tapping code is a real thing, known as Tap Code  
> \- Curufin did also invent Morse Code in this fic  
> \- Look at that! Plot points from multiple stories are coming together to form one cohesive unit!  
> \- Please leave a comment if you enjoyed it. I thrive off of the attention


	4. Monstrous Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there’s one thing Celegorm can say for himself, it’s that he wasn’t denying what he did, and he’s not excusing it either.  
> —  
> Or, Fëanor rebels, just a little bit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta read by the wonderful elvntari, who continues to bravely contend with my inability to use semicolons

Fëanor was almost surprised how easily the door opened for him. Despite the ease of his defiance, he had worried that Mandos would overrule him. The doors in the Halls could be opened for some, but as good as walls for others. Why was he allowed through? Perhaps Mandos saw merit in what he’d said. That was unlikely though; the Valar had never listened to him before.

Once the door swung closed behind him, Fëanor slowed to a stop. The eerie silver glow of the corridor calmed his rash rebellion, called him to contemplation. It would be so easy to just stop. How had rebellion gone for himself time, anyway? Hadn’t he said he rejected it, for the sake of his sons?

Fëanor shook his head to clear his thoughts. This was not the same, not by any means. He was gathering his sons in. There would be no death, no hurting, and no pain. There wasn’t anyone to hurt, anymore. Besides, his son needed him. Out of all of his brothers, Celegorm would handle this place the worst.

* * * * *

Celegorm couldn’t imagine that any of his brothers would handle this worse.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been since they’d brought him here. The Maiar had separated him from Curufin and Caranthir almost immediately, taken him to this stupid square room, then left him there. He’d had one visitor in the whole time he’d been there. One of the Maiar come to inquire about how he was. Celegorm had tried to eke out information about his brothers, but had given up after the fifth non-answer.

None of the Maiar had come to visit him since. Celegorm could understand why, though he was surprised he hadn’t received a harsher punishment. The Maia in question certainly looked like it wished he had.

Perhaps that was just the way a Maia’s face goes when you punch it. It wasn’t like he was going to be able to test that theory.

There was another part to the punishment though. They had installed new tapestries, covering over the two doors, so that all he could look at was fabrics. There were two that had been there when he’d arrived, one of Alqualondë and one of Doriath. He could see himself in both, and all the destruction that he and his brothers had wrought. It wasn’t exactly nice looking at your own death, but it was nicer than a false accusations of murder.

On one wall was a swathe of darkness. If you looked closely, you could see the shadows of dead bodies, but that was rarely where the attention was drawn. The middle of the tapestry was a bright figure, as golden as he ever was in life. Finrod stood alone in the dark, a great werewolf looming over him. It was moments before his death, Celegorm had gathered. He’d admit that he screwed Finrod over, and that some of the things that had been said shouldn’t have been, but it wouldn’t have made much of a difference even if the whole of Nargothrond had backed him. Celegorm had heard what happened there in the end.

The other tapestry made no sense to him. Celegorm had dealt out many deaths that day, yes, but he had killed Dior, not his sons. For some reason, though, the Maiar, or perhaps Mandos himself, had seen it fit to show him the two of them alone and vulnerable in the forest. Was that how they died? He didn’t see how it was any fault of his.

They wanted to fence him in, surround him with his sins, and make him beg for forgiveness. They thought the tapestries would awaken some compassion in him, that he’d realise what he’d done. That was where their fault lay. Celegorm had no illusions about what he was.

The hunter, he had been called, the wild one. They had said it in whispers in Beleriand, like he was a savage thing, remorseless, and to be feared. To an extent, they were right. Celegorm had killed long before any of his brothers. But he had killed kindly, with little pain, and he had let nothing go to waste. The Kinslayings were not ‘like hunts’ to him, they were waste of the highest order. They were a betrayal of all he had been taught. He had tried to keep it as painless as possible, though that was harder to do for elves actively fighting back.

Celegorm was a hunter, but that didn’t have to make him a monster.

The tapestries could not teach him about what he had become. So he lay down on the floor and looked at the ceiling and began to work it out for himself.

The ceiling had no tapestries, but it didn’t need one. It had a carving instead. No scene of violence, no ugly act rearing its head to drag remorse from him. It was a picture of him, back before he’d even left Aman. Celegorm vaguely recognised it. One of Caranthir’s drawings, maybe. It looked like his style.

He was smiling, and he looked so  _ young _ . Celegorm wasn’t looking at himself, though. Next to him, profile as grand as ever, was Huan. There was a breeze ruffling up Celegorm’s hair and the hound’s coat, but neither of them seemed to mind. Unbidden, a tear came to Celegorm’s eye. He missed that dog.

He was so engrossed in the picture, that he didn’t notice when one of the doors opened, and the tapestry of Eluréd and Elurín was pulled up. He didn’t even notice when the visitor sat down next to him, following his gaze upwards.

It was hard to miss when he spoke, though.

“Curufin told me what happened to him.”

Celegorm shot up, looking the visitor directly in the eye. Fëanor looked back at him, solemn and sad and loving all at once.

“I’m sorry. I know you loved Huan a lot.”

Celegorm shrugged, unsure of what to say. His father was right, of course, but his sadness was more than just missing Huan. He knew he deserved it, in the end, that Huan had gone with those far more deserving of him. How do you explain to your father that you deserved to be abandoned by your own dog? Celegorm had never been good at explaining things to his father anyway.

“They said he could only be killed by the greatest wolf that ever lived. We were going to hunt that wolf together. I wasn’t even there,” Celegorm began.

Fëanor took Celegorm’s hand in his. He didn’t seem to be inclined to speak, which only prompted Celegorm to say more.

“None of the words that he was supposed to say were for me. I deserved it. I was so angry when he left that I couldn’t understand  _ why _ . I did a lot of awful things.”

“We all did awful things.”

True as it may be, Celegorm shook his head. He needed his father to understand, even if he was inevitably going to ruin the explanation. Part of him didn’t want his father to think less of him for all he had done. A different part of him knew that he couldn’t lie about it. Celegorm, out of all of his brothers, had understood what they had become. If he wanted to feel better about it, he couldn’t just curl up against his father.

There was a difference, though, between knowing the truth about yourself and admitting it to another.

“I did worse things than all of you. I got Curufin to help me do them. I deserved to lose Huan’s company. He went on to do greater things than I.”

“And you think that you’re irredeemable because of it.”

“I think that we’re all irredeemable, and that I’m the only one willing to admit it. It’s not about redemption anyway.”

“No?”

“It’s,” he hesitated, “doing better, if we get the chance. No one’s going to come and make us into better people. We have to do it ourselves. I betrayed just about everything I’d ever learnt, and then refused to admit it. I’m better at that now. The others need the comfort. They spent too much time thinking on their choices. I didn’t spend enough.”

“I think you’ve spent long enough by now. This isn’t like you.”

“What, thinking?”

“No,” Fëanor seemed both amused and serious, “being so still and solemn. You told me once that you thought best while moving, while doing. Introspection is healthy, but too much makes you a shadow of who you were.”

“I didn’t think you’d know so much about thinking things through,” Celegorm muttered, the old defiances springing up easily upon his tongue.

Fëanor’s face went through several emotions. First, irritation, then relief, and finally joy. Celegorm wanted to laugh. Normally, saying such things to his father would get him in a world of trouble, but nothing was normal anymore. If his father felt glad that Celegorm was being rude again, Celegorm would not begrudge him it.

“I’ve had plenty of time to learn and practise the art of thinking. It would have been more use earlier, but, as you said, we must do better now.”

Celegorm did laugh at that. The whole situation was becoming so strange that he couldn’t do anything but laugh. He and his father agreeing wholeheartedly on something, without even the barest hint of an argument. It hit Celegorm quite suddenly how much he had missed his father. Fëanor seemed to sense this, and took his hand. Celegorm watched it like it was a stranger holding a stranger’s hand, and remembered the last time someone had held his.

_ Curufin’s grip had weakened as Celegorm watched. He had tried so very hard to hold on to both of their lives, all the while trying very hard to avoid thinking of Caranthir. Moryo had not had anyone there to hold his hand. _

Fëanor moved to pull away, but Celegorm held on tighter. He wouldn’t be left alone again.

“Do you want to come and see your brothers?”

Celegorm stilled. He very much wanted to see them again, but the Maiar had made it clear that he wasn’t meant to see anyone.

“Am I allowed?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m not technically supposed to be here, so I don’t think they’ll stop us.”

“You defied Mandos?” It did sound like something his father would do.

“Twice. Most recently, to his face.”

“I punched one of the Maiar in the face.”

Fëanor laughed, and then, still holding Celegorm’s hand, stood up. Celegorm rose with him and together they pulled up the tapestry of Eluréd and Elurín.

“What was the first time?”

“Caranthir taught me Curufin’s tapping code, and we used that to talk to him. Námo wasn’t pleased.”

Fëanor opened the door.

“Why didn’t you just go to him?”

“I hadn’t got quite  _ that _ angry yet.”

The door at the other end of the corridor swung open as they approached it. Curufin leaned into the gap, his face lighting up when he saw them. Celegorm let go of his father’s hand to rush forward and gather up his brother in his arms. Over Curufin’s head he could see Caranthir smiling at him. Celegorm extended a hand out to him, and smiled back when he took it, pulling him into the embrace. He and Caranthir got along as well as water and oil, but he was his older brother, and he had not protected him like he should have.

This room was brighter than his. His had been filled by strange silvery half-light that best illuminated the tapestries on the walls. It was a cold and uncaring light. This room was warm, and lit with a golden glow. The whole place felt welcoming (as welcoming as it got in the Halls).

His little brothers buried further into his arms, and Celegorm could feel his father’s arms close around their little group. Kinslayers, all of them. Perpetrators of the worst crimes, dealers of death and destruction. Irredeemable, because there was no one who would, or could, save them. There would be little pity, the Valar had made that achingly clear.

Still, if no one would save them, they would save themselves. If the powers would deny them what they deserved, they would make a new way.

Celegorm drew his brothers closer. Such a moment was both sacred and divine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I came up with this interpretation for Celegorm at 3 am on a Tuesday, so don’t @ me  
> \- The original idea for this chapter started with me trying to find a reason that Celegorm wouldn’t be the first person to leave his room, and ended with me deciding that he’d definitely hit someone  
> \- Please like and comment if you enjoyed!


	5. As the Changes Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get closer and closer and closer because they are the only ones who understand.  
> —  
> Or, there is an unexpected guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta read by the incredible elvntari!

While they were all given their separate rooms, Finwë couldn’t help but notice that his grandsons rarely used them, preferring their father’s. They huddled closer to each other, seeking warmth and comfort – the gentle, reassuring touch between the fëar of two that care for each other. Celegorm and Curufin stood either side of Caranthir every time he visited them, as though they felt the need to protect him. If a Maia visited, Celegorm would be the one surrounded, because, for all that they were adjusting, they still didn’t trust the Ainur.

Fëanor was attentive to all of them, eager to assure them all of his love and pride, but equally drawn to his father. He rarely admitted it, but he needed the same reassurance. Finwë was only too happy to give it.

After the dead of Gondolin had finished pouring in, there seemed to be peace. An uneasy peace, fragile and fearful, but there was visiting and reuniting and a remarkable lack of arguments. Everyone was united in looking outwards, hoping for the safety of the living that they loved. Nobody prayed, though. They’d given up on that long ago.

Finwë doubted that it would have mattered in the end. The bell rang for death and the world ended all over again.

* * * * *

Amrod and Amras had always been close. They shared a face, a voice, even a name. When they were children, they delighted in playing jokes on their family because next to no one could tell them apart. They had been inseparable from birth.

Inseparable took on a different meaning now.

The Maiar of Mandos had tried their best, but Ambarussa had pressed so close together that they could not pull them apart. So they relented, and took them to the same room. It was square and grey, with tapestries about death and death and death. Alqualondë and Doriath and Sirion loomed above them. The blood and fire demanded their attention, their answer. Alone, they may have given it, because tapestries of such a size could not be ignored. Instead, they turned ever more inwards, becoming an indistinct form that flickered between one red haired nér and two, sat as close together as possible.

It was quiet and still and empty in the room, enough to unnerve most, but they hardly noticed. Ambarussa were wrapped up in each other. They had watched each other at the end, at Sirion, and in the Halls they overwrote the stillness of the dying with the paradoxical movement of the dead.

* * * * *

The angry looks of the dead were nothing Caranthir wasn’t used to, but they made him flinch all the same. The people of Sirion blamed the Sons of Fëanor for their destruction, and why shouldn’t they? Many of them came from Doriath, where Caranthir himself had wreaked havoc, or else they were from Gondolin, and they still felt the ice cold sting of betrayal.

The Kinslaying at the Havens was the crowning failure of his family, and everyone knew it.

When the dead began flooding into the Halls, Fëanor had decided that they should stay out of it. There was no need to incite conflict, not with people suffering from the deeds of their brothers. Best to leave it alone. They all knew the mixed anger and fear of the dead. But then the bells tolled for them, and there was a new clarity in what must be done.

Since Doriath, there had been changes in the rules. Frequent protest from many different people had made Mandos begin to waver on the staunch rules that he held so dear. It was Aredhel, though, that had made him change his mind. After Gondolin had fallen, and her son with him, she had employed Celegorm to help her find him, and Caranthir and Curufin to distract Eöl for long enough for them to manage it. After that heist, Mandos had listened, if only to sheer unrelenting stubbornness, and promised to let them see their kin when they came.

If their brothers had come to the Halls, then they must be there to greet them. To take them in and protect them from the cruel stares that Caranthir had grown so used to. So they stood to the side, and waited. Nobody came.

* * * * *

Fëanor was the first one to be told. It was a short, private conversation, blunt and to the point. Amrod and Amras were those now counted among the dead. They had been taken to a different room so as to avoid causing a scene. The Maiar had been concerned by how close their fëar had been, almost as one. Fëanor asked if his sons had tapestries like the others had. Mandos informed him they did. He asked for them to be taken down, and, when he promised they would be, Fëanor thanked him with more sincerity than he had thought he could muster.

“When you wish to visit them, ask one of my Maiar. They will lead you to their room.”

“It’s not connected to mine?”

“We were expecting to be able to keep our promise. My Maiar had not anticipated how difficult it would be to get them to go anywhere. The room was supposed to be temporary.”

Fëanor paused for a moment to consider, the old thread of distrust running up his back. Long ago, Mandos had made it clear that he thought of the Noldor, and Fëanor most of all, as reckless and foolish and dangerous. As those who could not be trusted. He had placed a Doom upon their heads, had sequestered them away in little rooms, separate from everyone they cared about, so they couldn’t cause him any trouble. How could Fëanor trust him to be kind and honest now?

Still, there was something less of Mandos the Doomsman in his eyes, and something more of Námo, brother to Nienna, who pitied all, and husband to Vairë, who Fëanor’s own mother, Míriel, served. Fëanor found that he could believe that Námo cared, both about keeping the peace and keeping promises. The Valar aren’t spiteful, his father would say.

Fëanor thanked him again, and then turned back to his room and his sons, to go give them the news.

* * * * *

The silvery woman gilded into the room, pausing briefly to smile at Ambarussa, before moving over to the tapestry of Alqualondë, focusing her attention on the hangings on the wall. Ambarussa turned back to each other, eyes wide with excitement. They hardly dared believe it, but they thought they knew who this woman was.

She moved round the room purposefully, taking the tapestries down from the wall and folding them up. She moved like one of the Maiar, or a spirit, long used to formlessness. But there was a security to her, a sense of reality that was found in the tapestries and nowhere else. She set them down on the floor, and sat down across from Ambarussa, not touching, not invading their space, just organising the folds and humming to herself.

They wanted to speak to her, wanted to rush through all of the vastly different questions that they had. Such a simple variation in desires as the questions to ask was enough.

Two pairs of eyes looked across the room at the silver woman. She smiled at them again.

“Hello. You must be Pityo and Telvo. I’m very happy to finally meet you.”

* * * * *

Míriel was used to removing her body like an outdoor cloak when it suited her. With Vairë and their weaving, she was real and alive, but sometimes she travelled into the Halls of Mandos, and then it was good to leave the body behind. It was rare that she went to the Halls, and always with Vairë’s permission. There were Maiar to transport, hang, and remove the tapestries she weaved, but Vairë knew that Míriel wanted to give her son his in person, and that she took particular joy in removing the images of death and sadness from the walls.

The rooms that her grandsons had occupied were usually empty by the time she got there. She’d remove the tapestries from the walls, sometimes by pulling them off, with little care for if they survived it. They had only let her see Fëanáro once, to give him the things she’d made him. One of his sons was in the room too. Morifinwë, she believed, the one that took after her.

She had never met his other sons.

So, it came as more than a surprise when Míriel entered the latest room the divest it of its tapestries, to find a redhead curled up in the corner. Or, wait, two redheads, hardly distinguishable, flickering in and out of reality. Fëanáro had twins, she remembered, Telufinwë and Pityafinwë. The Ambarussa. That explained why they were almost one entity, then.

Míriel smiled at them, unsure if they would recognise her. A pair of eyes stared back at her; the twins had turned back into one. Not wishing to make them scared or uncomfortable, she began to work on removing the tapestries. She did it calmly, which was unusual, and all the while, she was watching them out of the corner of her eye. They watched her too.

Míriel had seen what had happened to them, the sudden and unexpected wounding, the stillness, the watching. She had known what she was doing when she had died, even if she didn’t know what to expect. They had had no idea it was even coming. She couldn’t imagine what that would feel like, but she understood that they would be scared and confused. The tapestries didn’t help, no matter what Mandos thought. Making them was her great sorrow, and removing them was her great joy, but being able to actually help her grandsons was something she had longed for.

The tapestries made no noise when Míriel dropped them to the ground. She sat next to them, making idle work, straightening out corners and brushing false dust off of something that was going to unravel very soon. Perhaps she’d repurpose the thread, make them into new tapestries for Fëanáro and his sons to enjoy. The twins were just out of her reach, watching her, still as one. Míriel cast her mind back to where they’d lived in Beleriand. She could make a tapestry out of that, like the one she’d made for Morifinwë.

The three of them stayed like that, two people sat opposite each other, waiting for something to happen, until, slowly, with a flickering that hurt Míriel’s head a little, both of the Ambarussa came into focus. They were pressed shoulder to shoulder, curled towards each other, wearing near identical looks of curiosity. Their fëar were similar, able to merge like that, but they were separate, different, whole, so long as they weren’t afraid. Míriel couldn’t help but smile.

“Hello. You must be Pityo and Telvo. I’m very happy to finally meet you.”

“You’re Míriel Þerindë, aren’t you,” said the darker haired twin.

“Yes, I am.”

“Can you tell which one’s which?” The other asked.

Míriel drew one of her legs up to her chest, and lent her chin on her knee. For a moment, she considered, and then she smiled slowly.

“You’re Pityafinwë,” she inclined her head towards the twin that had spoken first, “and you’re Telufinwë.”

They beamed back at her. Many of those that went to Beleriand favoured their Sindarised names, but the twins didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps it was just familiar, and that was all that they needed. Pityo leaned forward, seemingly intent on asking more questions, but at that moment, the door to the room swung open. The twins eyes flicked up to see who it was, and Telvo laughed. Míriel twisted round to see who was behind her, and laughed too.

The Valar rarely gave Míriel Þerindë leave to travel the Halls, and only twice, now, to visit those she loved. So how could she not laugh, when so many that she loved surrounded her?

* * * * *

Fëanor had not known what to expect. He wasn’t sure if the Maiar would have had time to remove the tapestries, if his sons would be surrounded like all of the rest. He wasn’t sure how they would react to him, if they’d hate him for pushing them down that road, if they’d even want to see him again. There was no way to know how it would go, but he went anyway, because he would rather they share their anger than never see him again.

All the way to the rooms, the Maia he followed was silent. They were a strange group, the Maiar of Mandos, so quiet and still. They unnerved him slightly. No one could ever get any information from them, for all that they had tried. The Maia gave him no indication of what to expect, just, as per usual, told him to be patient and wait. Fëanor was not very good at waiting, least of patiently, and fiddled with every tapestry they passed.

When they arrived at the room, Fëanor had fully accepted that anything could happen on the other side of the door. Amrod and Amras could act in any way, and, while he couldn’t predict it, he could work with it. He was prepared.

He opened the door, and stopped in his tracks. He was not prepared for this.

Sat on the floor, next to a pile of tapestries, being smiled at by his sons, was his mother.

The sound of laughter radiated from the room, as first Amras, then his mother, looked up and saw him. Fëanor was struck still in the doorway. Míriel stood up, tapestries over her arm. She pressed a smiling kiss to his forehead, and he marvelled at how it felt.

“Don’t go ammë,” he said, voice barely louder than a breath.

They never got enough time together. Fëanor wasn’t about to let this meeting become more of the same.

“Don’t worry onya,” she reassured him, before turning to the Maia still behind him, “Please take these back to the Lady Vairë, and tell her that I wish to spend some more time with my son.”

The Maia nodded, taking the tapestries from her arms and gliding off. Míriel turned back to Fëanor, the bright, beaming smile returned to her face, and pulled him into her arms. He eagerly returned the embrace. He had only seen her twice before this, once at the boundary between the House of Vairë and the Halls of Mandos, and once, briefly, in his room, when she brought him tapestries of beautiful things. This time, though, she wanted to stay, and she hadn’t been denied it. Fëanor stayed still for a moment, leaning into the warmth that everyone said she had lost, before remembering his purpose.

Amrod and Amras stood up as he crossed over to them. Fëanor was struck for a moment by the change he could see in their eyes. They weren’t the boys he remembered them as, but he hadn’t been expecting them to be. None of their brothers were either, but the depth of the pain in their eyes was almost startling. There was shame mixed in too, and fear. He stopped short of them, and extended an open hand.

The twins exchanged looks, wariness painted on their faces. Fëanor stayed still and unwavering, smiling gently, cautiously, at them. The moment of hesitation spoke volumes to him, but it did not ring full of hatred. Then it was over, and his son’s made their way back into his arms. Amras had taken the offered hand, and Amrod had followed him, and Fëanor pulled them close, safe, and secure. He felt a peace of mind wash over him once again. He had his sons. They did not despise him.

That serenity was blown away by the ice wind of Amrod’s voice.

“Atar, I’m sorry. I’m sorry we failed you.”

Fëanor pulled back to look at them. This was infinitely worse. He could apologise and make up to them until the breaking of the world, but his sons should not feel as though they had wronged him. He had lead them down a path that none of them, especially not the twins, should have taken. Fëanor had failed them, as a father, as a leader, as a king. Now was not the time to speak of his failures, though.

“No, you didn’t. You made the best of a very bad situation, and I’m proud of all you achieved.”

“All of them?”

“I wouldn’t call those achievements, no more than I would call Alqualondë or Losgar achievements.”

“Then what were they?” Amras spoke quietly, hesitantly.

“Events that we can neither repeat nor undo. If they were failures, then they were failures of the Oath.”

“Maedhros foreswore it.”

“Your brother always had good ideas, many better than mine.”

“It hurt him, though. It never stopped hurting him.”

That was not good to hear. It did, however, make some sense. The Oath was not made to be breakable. It also wasn’t made to hurt his sons. Fëanor wanted to look more into that, to see if the Oath could be altered in any way, if only to remove it’s barbs from his remaining sons. He didn’t know if he could reach it. It hardly touched any of them in the Halls.

“We can work on that. We can see what we can do about the Oath, but we’ll do it later. Right now, I want to take you back to my room. Everyone’s waiting for you two there.”

“‘Is Grandmother coming too?” Amras looked excited at the thought, the light coming back into his eyes. Amrod’s smile matched his in intensity, and Fëanor had to join them.

Turning his smile to where Míriel still stood in the doorway, Fëanor turned the question to her.

“Do you want to come with us?”

“Of course I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- when did this get so long?  
> \- as you may have noticed, the total number of chapters has increased to 8 now. despite doing maths, i cannot do maths  
> \- if you like the idea of the Maeglin heist, i will actually be writing it in the nolofinwion version of this fic  
> \- there’s also a bunch of one shots set in this ‘verse that this chapter has made me want to write  
> \- as always, please like and comment if you enjoyed


	6. Bitter End, Sweet Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon knows the worth of kindness, and Maedhros tries to learn.  
> —  
> Or, there is nothing that cannot change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title, beta reading, and general encouragement by elvntari
> 
> tw for suicide mention and poor mental health (maedhros’s pov is short, but it’s not great)

The Maiar of Mandos had done this many times by now. Since Alqualondë, they’d been kept busy, guiding and attending to the dead. Impassive at all times, endeavoring to help, to protect, to heal. The fëar of the elves entranced them. They were fluid and emotive and so, so beautiful. Even the volatile ones. They weren’t meant to get too close to those, weren’t meant to interact to much, but watching them move was just so interesting. They were like bright bursts of colour in a silver-grey world.

The House of Fëanor was certainly the brightest burst. The whole family tended towards sharing one room, and were not to be disturbed. It was just precautionary. They had had a hand in starting all of this, and Celegorm  _ had _ punched one of them during his isolation. But they’d also been magnificent creators, glorious warriors, and fascinatingly complex people. It was hard to not stare.

Celegorm, Caranthir, and Curufin had helped usher in The Change. After helping their cousin steal her son back, Lord Mandos had done away with isolations, unless they were needed to stop disturbances. The Maiar got to show people more of the Halls under the new rules.

Change came slow and rarely in the Halls. It left the Maiar frightfully dizzy, and thoroughly excited.

Some changes weren’t so good though. Death was always a tragedy, no matter how it came about, but this was new and this was worse.

Most fëar were recognisable when they arrived. Something about the Halls reminded them of the shape they once held. This fëa was blurred at the edges, like it couldn’t get a hold on itself, or else it was shaking so hard it had lost any hold it had. Lord Mandos did not pronounce any great judgement over it, only indicated it should be taken to where its family had been told to meet it.

The indistinct shape followed the lead of the Maia, who watched it with wide, worried eyes. It seemed to be trying to pull all parts of itself close, looking smaller by the minute. Death had not, it seemed, freed it. The Maia hoped to cool quiet of the Halls would be a welcome change, if nothing else. Perhaps seeing family would help it open up.

As the elf and the Maia passed together through the doorway, the Maia noticed something firmly ingrained into its fëa. Something foreign to the Halls, but achingly familiar to the elf.

It followed the Maia out of the door, and even further down the corridor there was still the smell of smoke.

* * * * *

At the very least, the room was empty of tapestries. Mandos had decided that this time, there was no need to force regret or remorse. If there was, Maedhros wouldn’t have come to the Halls.

The Maia had been surprisingly helpful. They were still quiet and distant, but there was something like sorrow in their eyes. Something like long forbidden pity. Any other time, Fëanor would’ve taken offense at that, but under the circumstances, he would accept it. He’d take it as a sign of change, and be thankful that they rarely made eye contact.

Perhaps the Ainur were able to change for the better. Perhaps.

The room they’d given Maedhros was cool and grey and unexpectedly large. There was no way it could conjure up memories of fire, no way that Fëanor and his sons could make it seem crowded. They were far away from the singing and celebration that had accompanied the end of the war. It was as close to ideal as was possible for such an unprecedented event, and an awful lot closer than Fëanor had expected.

Maedhros, however, was worse than he’d imagined.

He was barely recognisable and almost entirely the colour of ash, except for his hair, which was the colour of flame mixed with the colour of ash. Fëanor looked closer. His arms were pulled close to his chest, one handless, the other burnt and scarred. Most elves left their scars behind when they died. Maedhros, it seemed, had carried all of them with him.

When Fëanor had died, Maedhros was still Maitimo. He had shouldered the burden of impossible task after impossible task, kingship and survival and unity and the Oath. It had weighed him down with every step, even after he had given the kingship to Fingolfin. Eventually it drove him to this room, curled up in the corner, still bearing the weight of the past 600 years.

Fëanor did not know how to help him.

* * * * *

Technically, Fingon knew where his cousins lived. He knew his grandfather visited them often. He knew his father visited occasionally. He himself, had never been.

They were his family, and Fingon couldn’t have done without them after Dagor Bragollach, but he’d heard about their deeds. Their Oath was a dark and terrible thing, he knew, but that was little to justify two more kinslayings and the theft of children. It seemed so dissonant to the image of them that Fingon had believed in. They were dark and terrible things now, and besides, they never visited Fingon, so Fingon never visited them. He wasn’t even sure if they could.

That theory had been soundly disproved.

Fëanor had always been intimidating. Maedhros had tried to convince him otherwise, but Fingon was certain that he set out to do it, at least for the most part, deliberately. While by no means the tallest of the House of Finwë, his presence outstripped all others by a mile and his skill in rhetoric was unparalleled. By all logic, he should be even worse in the Halls of Mandos, due both to his temper and his unhoused fëa, which burned brighter than any other’s. Instead, he looked rather subdued, which was somehow worse.

“Findekáno,” Fëanor began.

“Fingon.”

“Fingon.”

He paused, seemingly struggling with what to say, which was equally baffling. Fingon shifted uneasily. Something was very, very wrong.

“Maedhros has arrived. He is--” Fëanor paused again. “He is not well.”

“I don’t think Maedhros has been well for a long time,” Fingon replied.

Surely that was not news to Fëanor, of all people. Surely his sons has told him what had happened to Maedhros in the years between.

“Worse, then. I don’t know how to help him.”

“So you came to me? Why?”

“Because I know what you’ve done for him. Because I know what losing you did to him. Because I know that you loved him, at least for a time. If there is anyone who can help him, it is you.”

“You knew I loved him?”

Fëanor raised an eyebrow at Fingon’s puzzled look, amusement dancing lightly across his face.

“Fingon, I’ve fallen in love before. I’ve watched your father fall in love before. It wasn’t very hard to guess, for either of you.”

“I would’ve thought you’d say something if you knew.”

“You didn’t seem inclined to hurt him, or steal away his loyalty.”

“Steal his loyalty?”

Fëanor had the decency to look at least a little guilty at that.

“Will you though?” he pressed.

Fingon paused. The Maedhros that had entered the Halls was not the Maedhros that Fingon remembered from Beleriand, nor the one in Tirion that he dreamed of. This one was dark and terrible and had done dark and terrible things. He would not kiss him smiling, laughing, would not be kind first and stern second, would not return to him. Fingon could not be sure what this Maedhros would do. He could not even be sure what he had done. He did not even know how Maedhros had died.

“How did it even happen?”

Once again, Fëanor struggled for words. Fingon braced himself for the worst.

“He cast himself into fires of the earth. Or, at least, that’s how it was described to me. He’s  _ not  _ well.”

“Where is he?”

* * * * *

After everyone had stopped coming in and out, Maedhros raised his head out of his arms, and took a proper look at the room he’d been left in. It didn’t seem much like a prison room. It was just large and empty, solemn without being judgemental. Perhaps there were better rooms in the Halls. Fingon and Fingolfin and all the others were probably in those better rooms, with bright and beautiful tapestries and lots of windows. Maedhros had been left in one of the dark, empty ones and forgotten about.

Yes, that was about right. For the best, even.

He could still feel the flames licking up his legs, catching on his hair. It was fainter now, not the burning that he deserved, but enough to remind him of it. He was still missing one of his hands. That was fair. He probably had to earn healing. Why would they give good things to murderers?

Everyone would forget about him soon enough. Maedhros wanted them to. It would be better for them if they did. His brothers likely wouldn’t, but they probably despised him by now, for his weakness or for failing them.

It hurt to think of Fingon forgetting him, but Fingon was golden and beautiful and Maedhros had failed him over and over again. He did not deserve to be held in Fingon’s mind, not in any capacity.

Still, it hurt to think of, so he put it at the front of his mind.

* * * * *

The door was closed, but the room still smelt faintly of smoke. Fëanor had warned him that Maedhros seemed to be holding on to old pain, that he had kept his scars and lost his hand, but Fingon had almost not believed him. It was much easier to imagine, having opened the door and looked in. He could feel his heart break a little for the elf he had loved.

Maedhros was, as his father had described, curled in the corner closest to the door, face pressed into his arms. Strands of his hair sunk gracefully down to lay against his back, looking like a fall of ash and a flash of flame. He hadn’t stayed stock still then. But he  _ was  _ hiding, from Fingon or from everyone.

The door made no sound when it shut. Fingon sunk down to the floor.

Eventually, without raising his head, Maedhros spoke.

“Why aren’t you shouting at me?”

“You’d prefer that I did?”

“Why would you come here, if not to shout at me?”

“Maybe I came because I heard you weren’t well. Maybe I came because I want to try and help you.”

“You can’t help me.”

“I can try. Have I ever failed you before?”

“You should have. You should have failed me at Thangorodrim so that I couldn’t keep failing you afterwards.”

Fingon remembered dying. He remembered the fear, and the pain, and the desperate hope for a rescue that never came. He remembered the way failure had felt, weighing heavy on him when he had first come to the Halls. Fingon had not, in that whole time, thought it was Maedhros’s fault. He had wondered when he and his army would arrive and why they were delayed, but placing blame had never crossed his mind.

“You should go,” Maedhros spoke quietly, still avoiding looking at Fingon, “You should just forget about me.”

“I’ll never forget about you. But I will go, if you’re sure that’s what you want.”

“What I want? It’s what I deserve.”

“I think we have very differing opinions about what you deserve, but right now, I only care about what you want.”

Maedhros raised his head at that. If Fingon had had a real body, he would have cried. Maedhros’s face was streaked in ash and his eyes were filled with pain. Hesitantly, Fingon moved towards him, running his hand gently across his face, sweeping away the ash. It wasn’t real, it wouldn’t stay any longer than they let it.

“I don’t know what I want.”

“I want to stay. Can I stay?”

“Please.”

* * * * *

Eventually Maedhros decided on something he wanted, momentarily casting aside, much to Fingon’s joy, the thoughts of whether or not he deserved it. Those conversations were for later, when Fingon no longer feared he would disappear into darkness. When Maedhros could look at all he had done with clear eyes, and not let the end cast long shadows over the rest of his life. There was hope yet that they’d have those conversations. Their room — Fingon refused to call it anything else — no longer smelled of smoke and the ash was all but gone. Maedhros still only had one hand, but they could survive that. They had for several hundred years.

Despite the progress, Maedhros still wouldn’t visit his family. Whenever Fingon mentioned it, he’d draw away from him, curling up and shaking his head until Fingon promised him he wouldn’t make him do anything he didn’t want to.

Instead of inviting Maedhros’s family into their room, Fingon went out to find them, carrying back messages of first love and concern, and later the all things they were getting up to: Turgon’s increasingly desperate efforts to keep his father as far away from Eöl as possible, Celegorm getting told off by his own dog, Celegorm and Aredhel’s terrible renditions of Finrod and Maglor’s music. A lot of it was about Celegorm, both from him and others. The most recent news was thoroughly uplifting. Vairë was petitioning for Caranthir to join her workshops.

The news always made Maedhros smile, and often made him fondly exasperated. Sometimes he’d talk about his brothers to Fingon, telling stories he’d heard a hundred times over but never tired of because they were a sign that Maedhros was getting well again. He’d had Fingon send his love and congratulations to Caranthir, and, when Fingon returned, had been in quiet conversation with a Maia of Mandos. He would not say what about, only that he’d made a request.

And that, Fingon supposed, was why their first visitor had come knocking on the door.

The Maiar, Fingon had noted, rarely knocked. They were too much a part of the Halls, and glided through it silently, never disturbing its intended peace. Only elves knocked on doors to announce their presence. With a nod from Maedhros, he rose to open the door and let their guest in.

It was, in fact, two guests, both with remarkably familiar faces. One, Fingon instantly recognised by his ever present blush and slightly awkward smile. The other was a stranger to him, if a stranger with a friend’s face. After a moment's confusion, he noted the silver hair, the intensity of her eyes, the nose and cheeks and chin that he could turn around and see repeated on Maedhros’s face.

“Caranthir, Míriel Serindë,” he greeted them with a smile, opening the door for them to enter.

“Þerindë,” came Maedhros and Caranthir’s automatic response.

Míriel returned a sweet, knowing smile to Fingon, while Caranthir stared straight over his shoulder, mouth hanging open a little way. Fingon turned around to see Maedhros standing to his full height for the first time since he’d arrived in the Halls. He was watching his brother almost shyly, waiting for Caranthir to make the first move. Despite the messages Fingon had carried to him, Maedhros still believed that his brothers hated him for his failures. He had not, evidently, expected Caranthir to come to their room. He smiled faintly, a shadow of the charming smile from their younger days, and at that Caranthir looked like he wanted to cry.

“Hello Nelyo,” he too was hesitant, as unsure of the etiquette as ever, hovering at the border of Maedhros’s boundaries.

Fingon could hardly blame him. He remembered what it had felt like when the wrong word could send Maedhros spiralling back to Nirnaeth or Doriath or the Sirion.

Maedhros reached out his shaking hand towards his brother, who took it carefully, then squeezed it very gently, as though reassuring Maedhros that he was, in fact, real. They smiled at each other for a moment. Fingon could see the way that grief and joy and hope and love mingled in their eyes, and for one moment, they were perfectly still, remembering what it was like to be in the presence of the other. Then one moved — Fingon could not tell which — and they were holding on to each other as though everything depended on it.

Míriel Þerindë — he had to remember — was fixing a tapestry to the wall behind him. He’d heard stories of her work, had seen it in Caranthir’s own. There had even been some of her tapestries hanging in the rooms belonging to Fëanor and his sons. Fingon hadn’t had the time to do any more than briefly, passively observe them from a distance. Up close, it was easy to see how she’d gained such renown. It was like Nerdanel’s statues, but as a sweeping scene. He remembered the view it depicted. It was the most beautiful sunrise he and Maedhros had ever seen from Himring.

“It’s incredible,” he murmured.

Míriel thanked him with a smile.

“His father wanted him to have something beautiful. I’ve made tapestries for all of his brothers, and he did ask me to. This room is very,” she paused, searching for the right word, “grey.”

“That’s right about where I usually end up with describing this place. It’s suited us well enough so far, but he was ought to be surrounded by beautiful things, if only to outshine them all. I’m glad he asked. I’ve been encouraging him to ask for a while now.”

Maedhros and Caranthir were talking excitedly now, moving over towards the tapestry. Fingon recognised the look in Caranthir’s eyes: the one when he talked about his work. It was a look that the Sons of Fëanor shared. The tapestry was a collaboration then, and Vairë’s appeal had succeeded.

It took Fingon a moment to recognise the greatest moment of that whole visit, but when he did notice, his first thought was that they were both, perhaps, free now. His second was that this would make it so much easier to marry him properly.

Carefully, so as not to disturb the fabric too much, Maedhros ran the fingers of his right hand over a sky filled with radiant colour and a sun glowing despite the clouds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i’m back. i’m sorry for being away for a while, but this chapter was not great to write or read.  
> please like and comment if you enjoy.  
> (also: i’ve included references to two planned fics. can you spot them?)


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